This Makes No Sense
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Carson/Hughes drabble about watching paint dry. In-joke related from me and My Madness.
1. Chapter 1

**Right, the idea for this story came from an in-joke that My Madness and I have, hence its slight oddness; nothing that can't be followed though. She wrote some of the dialogue too. No time frame, doesn't have to be a oneshot if anyone has any particularly vehement feelings on the subject.**

Why on earth they'd seen fit to paint the kitchen wall at one o'clock in the afternoon was quite beyond her. She had been informed- several times- that, as the kitchen wouldn't be in use again until that evening, it meant the paint would have time to dry without anyone accidentally leaving prints in it. Either that or it would have to be done at night, and the footmen had well nigh flatly declined to do it then. But this arrangement meant that, at quarter to two, she and Mr Carson were sitting silently side by side on the kitchen table, making sure that no one was clumsy enough to go and stand up against it. Well, she was sitting right on the table, while his feet were still touching the floor and he was still taller than her. Bristling a little at the obvious disadvantage nature had afforded her, she drew herself up to the full height she could achieve in this position. This was a fine afternoon's employment, she thought bitterly.

"It's a horrible colour," she remarked blandly- wanting to break the silence and hardly able to remark on the weather as they were inside.

Her statement brought him out of apparently deep- or absent-minded, at any rate- thought. He frowned a little, considering it.

"Do you think so?" he enquired after a moment.

"It's brown," she pointed out rather stupidly, "Horrid and murky. And too dark by far; we won't be able to see what we're doing in here of an evening."

He was quiet for a moment.

"I rather like it," he told her, "At least I don't find it as unpleasant as you seem to."

"Then you have rather an unusual taste in decorations, if you don't mind me saying so," she responded, with half a laugh, "Any particular reason you like it so much?"

"It reminds me of your eyes," he admitted shyly, "They go that colour when you're very surprised. Or very cross with me," he added with a small smile.

She didn't quite know what to say to that. Quite incredulous, she turned to him, mouth slightly open trying not to laugh.

"Just like that," he told her, inspecting the offending area of her face with the satisfied air of someone being proved right.

"You make it sound as if you quite enjoy it when I'm angry with you," she countered, nearly keeping the amusement out of her tone.

He seemed to take a beat to consider his response.

"I suppose I rather do," he conceded, "It's more just that I'm with you than you being cross though."

For such a quiet man, sometimes she couldn't quite believe some of the things he said. It occurred to her for a moment to simply fall off the table- so stunned she was-, but, she reminded herself, she was more in control of herself than _that_. But really, how was she supposed to respond to a remark like that? She felt really rather flustered.

"It's still an awful colour," she protested firmly.

"It suits eyes much better than it does walls," he agreed solemnly.

"Charles!" she exclaimed quite shrilly, and was moderately perturbed to see him grinning out of the corner of her eye. She fervently hoped that no one was standing outside listening to them.

"Sorry," he apologised, seeming to be momentarily humbled by the hysterical extent to which he appeared to be pushing her. He was still smiling though, she noticed irritably.

They were quiet for a few moments and remained perched on the table .

"Do you mean it?" she asked seriously after a while.

"What? Yes, your eyes are exactly the colour of that wall."

"No," she corrected hastily, "Did you really mean that you enjoy... being with me? Even when I'm cross with you?"

"Especially when you're cross with me," he told her.

She laughed in something like disbelief.

"That makes no sense," she told him, "None of this makes sense. Even that we're spending the best part of an afternoon watching paint dry makes no sense at all!"

"You make it sound as if you're not enjoying it," he told her levelly.

She glanced at him to gage his expression. Although the comment was made lightly, she could feel there was a greater meaning in it. His eyebrows were raised playfully, but not without the tinniest hint of hurt there too. She felt her own shoulders stoop as she sighed.

"I wouldn't quite go that far," she told him, with a small smile.

It was true, sitting here bickering with him about paint and eye colour was really quite diverting. It wouldn't do any harm, she thought, to spend a few more afternoons like this. But she was damned if she was going to say _that_.

They had reached a dead end, that much was apparent. They had said things that they would never have normally dared to and they weren't quite sure where to go to from there. The smell of the paint must have made them delirious, she concluded, then realised that she hadn't been able to smell it for quite some time now. She could feel his eyes on her and looked at her knees.

"Do you think it's dry yet?" he asked casually, in a faltering return to something approaching his usual manner.

"I don't expect so," she conjectured, "But go and dab at it with your handkerchief if you think it is."

He got up and approached the wall gingerly. As she had predicted, the paint wasn't dry and the pressure of his hand left a mark in the smooth colour. He turned to look apologetically at her, almost as if he hoped she hadn't noticed. She rolled her eyes at him.

"It doesn't matter," she told him, jumping down from her perch, "I think they left the paint here, we can cover it up easily enough; that spot will just take a bit longer."

She heaved the tub of paint out of the sink; why on earth they were storing it there was quite beyond her. With a strength that surprised even her, she thumped it down onto the table.

"I can manage," she told him, as he approached in a chivalrous attempt to help her, helping herself to a paint brush, "I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman but it was you who messed it up in the first place, so I'll do it."

However, she had apparently overloaded the paintbrush a little. Paint flicked in all directions as she tried to apply it.

"Be careful!" he exclaimed, not able to stop himself darting forward, "Otherwise you're nose'll be that colour as well as your eyes."

She was about to stoutly assert that she was more than capable of the task and, judging by what he had been saying, he could have no objections to her nose matching her eyes for a while, when she realised that in his sudden movement he had grabbed her hand and they were no effectively standing holding hands against the wall. He seemed to realise too and, maintaining contact for a moment longer, let go of her hand clearing his throat. Turning determinedly away from him, she set about righting the spot on the wall with great concentration. Once she had done so, however, there was nothing she could do to further put off turning round to him.

Although she had resolved not to look at his face she did. And laughed.

"You've got paint on your face," she said by way of explanation.

His eyes, she noticed, were also remarkably fine as crossness passed briefly over them.

"Let me," she offered as he tried in vain to locate the mark.

She held her breath as she stood on her tip toes to wipe away the smudge with his handkerchief.

Sitting back down where they had been before, he examined the brown stains now etched onto his handkerchief.

"It's a very pretty brown," he remarked carefully.

Although she bit her lip to try to stop it, it wobbled into a grin that couldn't be suppressed.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**There be more. My Madness is responsible for most of the dialogue in this chapter. Thank you for the review so far.**

Hurriedly tying the waistband of her coat she headed towards the door. She was certain that she must be the last one out and picked up an umbrella from the stand thinking that she would have to make haste. It was only force of habit- from years of checking no one was being left behind or going to get locked in somewhere- that made her throw a haphazard glance over her shoulder at the kitchen. And she came to a jarring stop when she saw him standing there.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asked almost to herself, as it couldn't have been loud enough for him to hear, turning back towards the kitchen as opposed to the back door.

Even if it had been audible he probably wouldn't have heard it. He seemed quite in his own little world. He was standing just as he had been while they watched the paint dry- leaning up against the kitchen table and still towering over her. When he showed no sign of having noticed her, she moved further into the room and towards him.

"I thought we'd agreed that the paint had dried?" she asked him softly, smiling a little.

It was enough to break his reverie, quiet as it was, and he turned towards her; returning the smile as she came to stand beside him. Both facing the wall, they were quiet and rather self-conscious, as if they expected someone to burst in on them at any moment; which was odd as everyone else had already departed for church.

"I've been thinking," he admitted as much to the wall as her. "I want to marry you. Tell me you will..."

She waited a whole beat, convinced that she must have misheard. But no, she thought, he was watching her anxiously, waiting for her response with such a look on his face that might have broken her heart had she not been so taken aback. The morning light from the high little windows was shining on that ridiculous brown paint and tinting his face just a touch with the colour. Perhaps it had turned him delirious. She felt herself give no discernible reaction except to place the umbrella carefully down on the table beside her, to avoid dropping it.

"Say yes," he told her quietly, as if it were a prayer "And I will go inform his Lordship."

Her mouth opened and shut but no answer and certainly no wisdom came out. She seemed unable to do anything but stare straight ahead at that stupid wall. She couldn't speak; she couldn't think of anything except to wonder vaguely if her eyes really were such an unfortunate colour.

"Elsie."

It was a plea that she had to answer. She could feel his eyes on her and tore hers from the paint to look at the skirting board.

"You can't mean it." she half-declared in an attempt at a reasonable tone of voice, "We've never... Nothing. Not even a kiss. You've never held my hand or..."

"There is time for all that. I know it all, how wonderful it would be... even if we haven't..."

His voice was lullaby soft. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to concentrate.

"There are things I've never told you," she pressed determined that he should hear something- what she knew not. That she hadn't exactly led a nun's life in the past, presented itself quite forwardly, though she might as well have for all the happiness it had brought her. Probably the worst combination possible. And she'd practically given up on that sort of thing...

"You can tell me once we are married," he assured her. "Tell me everything then. Or now if you'd rather. Or never," he added almost as a dismal afterthought.

_I'd given up on those notions_ – it rang resoundingly through her head, with certainty- _except for those foolish thoughts I had had of you._

"When you started all that nonsense about the paint and my eyes..." she began.

"It wasn't nonsense though, Elsie. Not to me. It was something that needed saying. Not the actual words, perhaps... But the sentiment."

"The sentiment being what, Charles?" she asked. She dared herself to look him in the face.

He dropped his head after a false start at getting something out. It occurred to her that the way she was looking at him might have put him off, but she pressed on.

"You've asked me to marry you and there is something you can't bring yourself to say?"

Suddenly, it was too much to tell her he loved her.

"How do you feel about me?" he finally managed.

"I don't know the words... but I know I don't belong with anyone else. I don't belong to anyone else," she said and she looked at her shoes. "I haven't said, 'No.' to your question," she explained. "Does that help?"

He bowed his head.

"I shouldn't have sprung the question on you like that," he apologised, "Forgive me, I should have waited."

She shook her head at him, blinking slowly.

"You don't need to apologise, Charles," she told him gently, "Women tend to take it as a compliment, you know, if someone asks them to marry them."

He almost smiled at that. Then, without thinking about it, from where she stood beside him she reached out and placed her hand on his elbow, giving it a quick squeeze. She knew she lingered longer than she should have. The action, in all its haste, seemed to move them into some of the slowest moments of silence she had ever endured. There was a throbbing, palpable, wonderful tension between them and she couldn't think of anything to say. Her first mad impulse was to take it all back and say there and then that she'd marry him without further ado, but she couldn't do that to him, knowing her brain would catch up with her as soon as she'd said it.

"Think about it?" he implored her at last, "Please, Elsie, think about it."

"Of course I'll think about it," she assured him.

She got the feeling little else would occupy her thoughts in the immediate future.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for review so far and for bearing with my slowness in updating. I have exams. **

Wednesday afternoons were the low point of the week for a number of reasons. The first was the midweek slump everything seemed to fall into; slowing down the pace of life when it was furthest away from the restfulness of a Sunday. The second was infinitely more pressing: more often than not it was on a Wednesday afternoon that Lady Grantham would take tea with both her mother-in-law and Mrs Crawley. Her Ladyship was a braver woman than Elsie was, she thought ruefully as she ascended the stairs to the main part of the house, there was no doubt about that.

Except, this week Elsie was also being called upon to be brave. The ladies wanted to discuss the organisation of her Ladyship's annual garden party and Lady Grantham wanted Elsie- who did the actual organising- to be present too. She couldn't help but get the feeling that her Ladyship was enlisting the help of all the allies she could come by.

She had been told to come straight into the drawing room, so she entered without knocking. Having entertained hopes of a last minute cancellation she was somewhat dismayed to see that all three ladies were present.

"And of course there will be the marquee," her Ladyship was saying.

There was a brief welcoming shuffle in acknowledgement of Elsie's presence.

"Ah, Mrs Hughes," her Ladyship greeted her, "I'm so glad you're here, I do hope I'm causing you no trouble."

"None at all, your Ladyship," she replied, reminding herself it was only a white lie.

Her Ladyship turned back to her guests.

"Mrs Hughes is the real brains behind the event," she informed them, with an appreciative glance towards Elsie, "But she's kind enough to allow me to take the credit."

The Dowager Countess coughed approvingly into her teacup.

"It was always so in my day," she told the other two, straightening her back in her chair, "Our housekeeper was rather terrifying when it came to this kind of thing- I imagine you remember only too well, Mrs Hughes? I should have been quite frantic without her. Though I dare say Mrs Crawley is ashamed of us. Having organised herself without a housekeeper's aid for so many years."

The cutting implication the Dowager made by the latter was clear to all of them. Elsie loitered hesitantly a short distance away from the ladies, not daring either to advance or retreat but very much wishing that she could slink back into a corner of the room and not be called upon until she was dismissed. This was precisely why she hated Wednesdays.

"Your independence does you credit, Mrs Crawley," Lady Grantham told her warmly.

Elsie momentarily marvelled at her Ladyship's ability to turn her mother-in-law's jibe into a compliment. However, they were not in safe territory yet.

"Yes," the Dowager put down her cup, "Independence does well enough if you happen to like that sort of thing. Or if you have no other option. However if you had-..."

"If you're talking about Lady Sybil," Mrs Crawley finally turned to Lady Violet, unable to continue ignoring her for much longer "I think it quite up to her to decide what she wants to do with her life. Besides, I think her interest in politics is merely a wish to see things change."

"A wish that you have encouraged by all accounts!" the Dowager Countess retorted accusingly.

Elsie now unashamedly backed away towards the sideboard. No one noticed.

"Why should I not? I am sure all she can be interested in is change for the better!"

The Dowager's mouth was open; no doubt ready with another impressive retort when a voice stopped her.

"More tea, my Lady?"

The impeccable servant that he was, Elsie had not even noticed that Charles was present until he moved forward to prevent the outbreak of civil war within the drawing room. Towering benignly over the Dowager Countess with a pot of tea, he somehow- inexplicably- managed to knock the wind out of her sails and she faltered for a moment.

"Yes," she finally responded, "Thank you, Carson."

Charles inclined his head graciously and then retreated. Elsie should have remembered that he did not deem a single footman sufficiently competent to allow him to wait on these meetings and so undertook the task himself. He had not, however, returned to the corner he had originally inhabited but now stood directly across the room from Elsie, directly in her line of sight. Amazingly, it seemed that his simple action had managed to somewhat diffuse of the tension between the ladies. Elsie sighed, leaning backwards. If that was the case, then the meeting promised to be nothing but dull. And so she stared out of the window to avoid staring at the man who had asked her to marry him nearly two weeks ago.

He couldn't help but watch her as she stood across from him. The dark of her dress and her hair, and the dark he knew was in her eyes, was a bold contrast to the wash of pastel blue behind her. The pale of the light on the wall lit up her white skin, making her glow slightly. Demure and modest as the dress was designed to be; the effect was quite the opposite. Even the shuffling movement of her scratching her nose had an elevated grace about it. She was a radiant monotone; she was beautiful. Had they been alone he knew he would have found himself entreating her to marry him, again. Casting her gaze around the room, she noticed him watching her and he meant to look away hastily but did not manage it before she looked him in the eye. And then he found looking away was impossible.

She knew she was here to participate in her Ladyship's discussion but Elsie felt her attention wandering dangerously as he looked at her. He gave her half a smile, conveying his mild amusement at the alarming propensity these particular women seemed to have to end up bickering, and a lot more besides that. She felt her own lips return the gesture quite without having to think about it, flushing slightly. A charge seemed to run through the air between their faces; transfixing them. Even before their eyes had met she had felt him watching her; felt his eyes on her skin, wandering with a reserved admiration, but wandering nonetheless. She wondered how much more of this madness she could take.

"What do you think, Mrs Hughes?" 

Her Ladyship's question put her on the spot as well as jolting her alarmingly out of her reverie.

"I beg your pardon, my Lady?" she coloured still further at her slip up.

"Ought we to sit the musicians by the marquee or the house?" her Ladyship repeated.

Elsie hastily flipped a mental coin.

"By the marquee, I think, my Lady." 

Her opinion apparently settled the matter. Mrs Crawley nodded her approval and Lady Violet looked disgruntled. Elsie was momentarily pleased with her choice: anything to antagonise the old bat. She kept her eyes on the floor this time listening determinedly to the conversation, unwilling to allow herself to be drawn into such distraction again. She had a feeling, however, that he was still watching her. And it well nigh drove her out of her right mind.

What on earth was happening to them? She did not know what to do; sure as she was that the mere feeling of a man's eyes on her should not cause her to feel as it did. It should be embarrassing- and it was but in the wrong way. She was embarrassed only because there were others in the room. Casting that aside, it made her feel alive. She could hardly stand still.

"Mrs Hughes," Mrs Crawley addressed her much to her surprise, "Are you feeling quite well?"

Her Ladyship turned around to survey the housekeeper, as well as Lady Violet's eyes swivelling towards her.

"Well, ma'am?" she asked.

Mrs Crawley nodded.

"Yes, you look rather warm. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

The lady's voice was kindly and Elsie had a feeling that she didn't know just how accurate her statement was.

"Yes," Lady Grantham agreed, "You do look rather hot, if you don't mind me saying. I think you'd best go and lie down for an hour or so. You can rejoin us once you feel more like yourself."

Elsie could not remember confirming that she felt unwell but was glad of an excuse to leave all the same. She would not meet Charles eye as she turned towards the door and did so too quickly to notice that both of them were being watched shrewdly by someone else altogether.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for the review so far, they were much appreciated.**

Lying down did her no good whatsoever, what she really needed was to stick her head firmly into a tank of cold water; but she was stopped by the thought that she could not hide forever and it would look odd if she were to walk about the house, dripping from the shoulders upwards. Reaching this conclusion, she resolved to give it half an hour and then return upstairs. She could not deny that the effect his gaze had on her was unnerving in the extreme. They hadn't exchanged as much a word and she had felt a tell tale flush creeping up her neck. She shook her head sharply.

It was idiotic really, through trying to avoid seeing him too often to give her time to think through her decision she had managed to provoke situations like this nearly every time they met. Admittedly, this had been the most severe case but, thinking on it, it was happening all of the time on a minor scale. Hasty glances during mealtimes; meeting inadvertently in deserted corridors; accidentally standing too close to each other when addressing the staff or- worse still- their employers: every time they were close to each other the tension was palpable. They hadn't been like this before, she told herself, not until he proposed. No, that sounded like she was blaming him. She wasn't blaming anyone: it would be wonderful if it weren't so damned nerve-wracking. But perhaps it was his proposal that had led her to look for things like this in the first place. And was she happy that she was finding dangerous, heart-stopping moments like these round every corner? She did not know and shook her head again.

…...

She returned upstairs just in time to see her Ladyship and Mrs Crawley leaving the drawing room. The ladies chatted amicably, without noticeable forced politeness, and Elsie deduced that Lady Violet hadn't persisted in being any more cantankerous than usual in her absence.

"Ah, Mrs Hughes," her Ladyship smiled, seeing her, "Feeling a little better, I hope?"

"Much better thank you, my Lady," Elsie replied, "I can't think what came over me."

"It happens to the best of us," Mrs Crawley assured her, putting on her gloves with a sympathetic smile, "Thank you very much for the tea, Cousin Cora, but I really must be getting back."

"You're sure you wouldn't like to stay for dinner?" Lady Grantham asked.

Mrs Crawley declined saying that she should not like to overstay her welcome. Elsie got the feeling that Lady Violet's staying for the evening might have more than a little to do with the decision.

"Nonsense, you know it's always a pleasure for us to have you here. But of course I understand that you'd probably prefer a quite supper at home with Matthew after... well, after such a lively discussion," her Ladyship smiled diplomatically, "I shall have Carson fetch your coat."

But Charles, truly the perfect servant, was already standing by with the appropriate garment in his hands. The man had an uncanny ability for appearing out of nowhere and Elsie wished that she could have had more of a warning. The surprise of his sudden appearance sent her skin, that hadn't altogether recovered from the last performance, glowing warmth again and she thanked God for her high neckline, only hoping the ladies wouldn't notice her for a second time. She stood quite paralysed in the hall as he helped Mrs Crawley into her coat with dignity. Both women smiled approvingly as he made to lead them to the front door.

"Thank you, Carson, but we'll be fine. The footman can open the door for us," her Ladyship told him, and she and Mrs Crawley left. Leaving them alone.

They were almost completely silent for the most ridiculously protracted of moments. Although they were effectively standing idly in a corridor it occurred to neither of them to leave. Coughing delicately and shuffling could go on for only so long before they met each other's gaze again. His eyes were mildly uncertain, she thought, amid the decided hues of something else altogether. Her eyes were as beautiful as he'd remembered- even more so from a fortnight of trying politely not to meet them. And then there was nothing shuffling at all in their movements; they were swift, decided, empowered as he crossed to where she was standing. Without thinking about it, his hands went gently to her cheeks, the care he took amending for his haste of the preceding seconds. The skin of her cheeks near her eyes which he met with his first hand was soft and cool as he caressed it with his thumb, but her jaw and neck were wonderfully warm on the second. She frowned a little, although her eyes told him she was not uncomfortable and he gently ran his finger along her brow, smoothing the crease. Their breathing was tremulously slow and uneven.

Her eyes felt heavy with the feelings he was evoking in them. She closed them slowly. The sensation of his hands lightly on her face doubled. For all of his genuine gentlemanly patience, his hands though light were unmistakeable possessive. And she revelled in it. She bit her lip gently, hoping he'd take the hint. Sure enough, a second later, she felt the hand brush against her lips so that they rested peacefully together. She nuzzled into the fingers as they lingered there. Her hands lifted to hold his elbows, telling him not to let go. It was wonderful. She opened her eyes to see him staring at her. And she was not afraid of what would come next.

Then the door clicked. They jumped well nigh out of their skins.

But judging by the alarmed rising of the Dowager Countess's eyebrows, neither of them withdrew their hands quickly enough.

**Please review if you have the time!**


	5. Chapter 5

She was going to lose her job, of that she was certain. If she was lucky she'd be given the choice: leave quietly of her own will or be dismissed and _everyone _would know the reason why. For the rest of the afternoon it was all she could think of; the hours were ticking down until she lost her job and the way of life that went with it. Why couldn't it have been Mrs Crawley who walked out of the room at the wrong time? She had all but fled from the Dowager Countess: the look on the woman's face was enough. She could not settle, she was waiting for the moment when her Ladyship summoned her to dismiss her.

When dinnertime arrived, however, without any such summons, she became confused. Perhaps Lady Violet had not had the chance to tell Lady Grantham yet, she thought, that was probably it. Before the end of dinner she'd be out on her ear.

And the terrible thing was that now she was going to have to leave, she'd finally made up her mind. She would have married, of course she would. They belonged together. She'd known from the off- when he was saying those ridiculous things about her eyes- that she couldn't ever belong to anyone else, but it was only now that it hit. As they stood together, his hands on her face; they were silent but for their breathing and utterly absorbed in each other's presence- enough for them to forget themselves. But she couldn't tell him now, now that she had to leave. It wasn't fair.

She did not want to go upstairs, anything to distance herself from that old wench, but it would be a nightmare to explain why she stayed downstairs and so she resigned herself to heading up

to clear up after dinner with the others. As usual she went to see to the drawing room. She leant her head towards the door, making sure that the ladies weren't still in there. It was silent and so she opened the door and entered. And nearly fell over when she saw Lady Violet sitting there; quite calmly, as if there was nothing unusual at all in her having apparently loitered behind her daughter-in-law and granddaughters. Elsie realised too late that she was standing still, staring agog at the Dowager Countess. Thankfully, however, Lady Violet seemed to take that in her stride too.

"Ah, Mrs Hughes," she addressed Elsie crisply.

She knew I'd be here, Elsie thought, bracing herself and said nothing. The Dowager seemed to have been expecting some response other than silence and more staring, but wasn't greatly deterred by the non-arrival of such a reply.

"I'm glad I happened to see you," Lady Violet pressed on, confirming Elsie's suspicion that the meeting had been premeditated, "Because there is something I would rather like to discuss with you. Won't you sit down?"

Here it comes, Elsie thought, taking an uneasy seat on the edge of the couch opposite, mentally counting down the remaining seconds of her being employed. She was grateful of the invitation to sit: her legs felt about ready to give way. Lady Grantham fixed her with quite a piercing stare.

"Now, Mrs Hughes," she began, with an air of not wanting to beat around the bush, "I'll come to the point. What on earth is going on?"

She did not need to be specific, her meaning was apparent.

"In terms of what, your Ladyship?" Elsie asked, feigning polite ignorance.

"My good woman," Lady Violet bounced back with considerable bluntness, "Has or hasn't Mr Carson asked you to marry him?"

It _must_ be a coincidence, Elsie thought, or else she's being old fashioned and presumes the first stage of relationship is naturally engagement. Otherwise, she can read minds.

"Yes, my Lady," she replied, still uncertain at the degree of conjecture involved and shocked at its accuracy, "He has."

"And what was your reply?" Lady Violet pressed pointedly.

The nerve of the woman!

"I told him I'd think about it," Elsie told her, "I have not given him an answer yet."

The older woman nodded, taking it in. She opened her mouth, no doubt about to speak again, but Elsie cut across her.

"My Lady," she began uncertainly, "I realise that... what you witnessed this afternoon might have seemed... well, it might have caused you alarm, but," she stirred herself to be daring, "But I do not think it fair that I should lose my place over it. After all, a housemaid found in the same situation would merely be given a warning, at worst."

"And what, would you say is that normal practice when a housekeeper if found in such a situation?" Lady Grantham enquired with an air of testy interest.

And to that Elsie had no answer because she didn't suppose housekeepers often did find themselves in such a position. She was, in a sense, one of a select few, but did not feel particularly good about it by any means. Lady Violet, it seemed, had known she wouldn't have an answer to give.

"Mrs Hughes," the Dowager Countess continued in a business-like tone, "I do not wish to see you dismissed, on any account."

That was a surprise for a start.

"You don't?" Elsie asked, almost not daring to believe it.

"I do not," Lady Violet clarified, "I would, however, like to ask you some further questions and would be grateful if you would take care to answer me honestly."

"Anything, my Lady," she replied, an elated feeling of relief creeping through her veins now.

Lady Violet nodded.

"When, might I ask, do you intend to accept Mr Carson's offer?"

As soon as possible, was the instinctive, emphatic answer, but she paused for a moment.

"How do you know, my Lady, that I intend to accept?"

The Dowager raised her eyebrows rather coolly.

"Because I have a pair of eyes in my head," she replied, "Because I know your indisposition this afternoon was not due to illness."

Elsie coloured a little at the statement.

"I do not know what has transpired between Mr Carson and yourself- I don't want to know, either-" she added hastily, a look of being moderately scandalised passing swiftly over her features, "But, if I may speak plainly, the tension in this room today was enough to shatter the teacups!"

That did nothing to help Elsie's colouring. The Dowager appeared to be watching her closely.

"Why haven't you accepted him?" she asked.

Elsie thought for a moment.

"Because I wasn't sure how I felt," she concluded. Surreal as this conversation already was, she could not say directly to the Dowager Countess that she hadn't known if she could love him.

"And no that you've been thinking that I was going to dismiss you, things couldn't seem clearer?" Lady Violet ventured to finish for her.

The woman _could _read minds.

"Yes."

"Then, Mrs Hughes," the old lady concluded with the rather smug air of someone who has been thoroughly proved right, "I think we both know what you must do now."

**This probably seemed spectacularly out of character and for that I apologise. Please tell me what you think. I reckon on there being one more chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

That night it seemed as if no one would ever go to bed; to her it seemed that most of the staff were lingering downstairs deliberately. It's as if they know I need to speak to him alone, she thought irritably. She had half a mind to send them all to bed straight away- it was probably within her power- but that would raise a few eyebrows and suspicions along with them. No, she would just have to wait. But she couldn't wait here, sitting close enough to touch him. She got up from her chair unnoticed among the chatter and wandered through into the kitchen. It made a pleasant change; it was cool and dark and quiet. Closing her eyes and folding her arms across her chest, she perched herself on the edge of the large table and waited.

It seemed like an age, but glancing at the clock in the corner it was a mere fifteen minutes. They must have taken her leaving as a sign that it was time to start turning in for the night. And he had followed her. Somehow she'd known he would, but a flush of relief still ran through her. His silhouette appeared in the light of the doorway.

"What are you doing sitting in the dark?" he asked her, his deep voice rather tentative but amused.

Truthfully, she did not know, she had just liked it that way. She did not reply and not only because she had no definite answer: this was the first time they'd actively sought each other out in a fortnight. He obviously realised too, he cleared his throat a little, sounding nervous.

"Do come and sit down, Charles," she implored him, needing to feel at less of a disadvantage, "Don't just hover in the doorway."

He brought a hand lamp with him. Placing it down carefully between them he leant beside her on the table. She was glad of it, it was enough to see in without being intrusively bright. The light was soft and agreed with her current disposition. For a few moments they remained just like that, side by side in the light of a flickering lamp, not saying anything. There was tension, yes, but it was also companionable; not maddening like it had been in the drawing room that afternoon. Heavens, she thought, was it only this afternoon? A lifetime of worrying about being sacked had elapsed since then. He seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"I'm... I'm sorry about what happened this afternoon," he told her sincerely.

"Are you?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes," he insisted in earnest, "It was very wrong of me to put you in such an awkward position."

"You couldn't have helped it. You couldn't have very well walked out on serving her Ladyship, could you?" she asked incredulously.

"I was talking about after that. In corridor."

"Oh."

"If you like I could explain myself to Lady Violet," he offered, "Tell her it was all my doing. I'm sure she'll understand."

"Well, that's funny," she told him, drawing herself up a little, "Because I'd rather hoped it was just as much my fault as it was yours," she allowed him a moment to digest what she was saying and to work up her nerve to say the next, "And Lady Violet happened to tell me to marry you this evening."

He seemed to blink very hard at that, running his hand distractedly over his hair as he did when he was struggling to comprehend several things at once.

"Naturally," he concluded, finally, "She thinks it only proper-..."

"No, Charles, you don't understand me. She has told me she thinks I should marry you. She thinks it would be... agreeable to me," she looked for a way to phrase it without sounding very odd.

He paused for a moment.

"You mean, she thinks...?"

She nodded, a smile creeping into her features.

"She told me the tension in that room was enough to shatter the teacups."

She bit her lip to stop herself laughing, but couldn't help herself when she caught his eye.

"A fine analogy," he chuckled.

"Yes, it was rather," she wiped her eyes a little, "Very delicately put."

Suddenly, the fine analogy of the tension between them seemed to have resurrected it. She was aware of how close together they were sitting, separated only by a very small lamp. She heard him clear his throat and so resolved not to speak. However, no words came until they both tried to speak at once.

"Go on," he told her, being a gentleman.

She bowed her head for a second, making sure that what she wanted to say _was_ what she wanted to say.

"Charles," she began, "Today... after Lady Grantham walked in on us, I thought I was going to lose my job, I really did."

He nodded gravely.

"I must admit that thoughts of that nature crossed my mind too," he told her.

"Well..." she carried on at an even pace, "Thinking that, thinking I would have to leave... it made me realise: I wouldn't want to. I really wouldn't want to. Because..." Why was this so damned difficult? "Because I'd have to leave you. And I'm not sure what I would do then."

She could not look at him as she said it, the realisation still too raw within her. However, the now familiar touch of his hand on her face forced her too. And she saw a kind expression there.

"Elsie," he whispered, "I-..."

"No," she told him calmly, "I want to say it."

He closed his eyes, as if to savour her words. She went on.

"I love you, Charles," she told him quietly, "And I have for a long time. Only I've been to foolish to see it."

His hand was still on her face, and it was very diverting. Taking it in hers, she held it tightly to her chest for a second. His eyes flickered open, a little surprised.

"There," she announced softly, "We've held hands now."

He frowned in incomprehension for a second, before the memory of their previous conversation dawned on him. And he smiled at the gesture.

"And by my reckoning we have a lot to talk about," he joined in, "Only if you want to, that is," he added.

"I want to share my life with you," she told him simply.

He smiled at the double meaning. Cautiously shifting the light to one side he leant forward and kissed her on the mouth. He heard a sigh leave her lips as he did so.

"You're very beautiful, Elsie," he told her drawing back, thinking of her eyes, looking at the way happiness exaggerated them.

She scoffed a little.

"I'm yet to find evidence to support that," she informed him, "But feel free to think that, if you will."

He laughed again, kissing her on the forehead.

**End.**

**I hope you liked. Please review if you have the time.**


End file.
